


Sterek Sprinkles

by Siriusstuff



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Hangover, M/M, Married Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Various settings, mentions of oral sex, rating is for last ficlet, tagging is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusstuff/pseuds/Siriusstuff
Summary: A little collection of ficlets in varying AUs but all about Stiles and Derek.





	1. Hot Tub

**Author's Note:**

> I get a lot of ideas, start writing them out, hit a snag, put the start aside, get a new idea, start the whole process over. I had a number of things that were likely never going to get beyond where I stopped and my working at them was just keeping me from working on much more fleshed out developed fics. So I decided to tidy up a few, put them all into present tense, give them some form of definite close and post them as a ficlet collection.  
> The collection title is what came to me immediately and then I wasn't happy with anything else.  
> I'm sure I'm going to have more of these but I'll post new ones in separate collections and will not be adding to this one.  
> These are all short, nothing is dwelt on, and the ratings vary from ficlet to ficlet, so to be respectful to those who want to know, I'd rate Hot Tub teen and up, Hole has the reference to oral sex so I'd rate that mature, Hangover is teen and up and Happy PBA Day is explicit, though the smut is fleeting.  
> As always if I've left out anything that should be there in the posted tags, please let me know.

_Part of Laura’s and her husband’s wedding gift to Derek and Stiles includes an afternoon at a werewolf owned and operated day spa_.

The interior is cozy, low-lit like nearly every other space in the spa. There are only clothing hooks on the wall, a built-in nook with shelves, plush towels on some of them. Taking up most of the floor is a hot tub, brushed stainless steel, full of bubbling water.

“ _Great_ ,” Stiles starts immediately, “A festering soup of other people’s germs and DNA. How special!”

Derek’s _so_ accustomed to this side of Stiles his smirk is automatic. But if anyone’s going to enjoy an extended honeymoon phase, it’s Derek.

“Stiles,” he answers, “where do I begin?” He encircles Stiles’s robe-clad shoulders. “First, _werewolf_ spa. Conditions are immaculate. Second,” tapping his nose, “do you think _I’m_ climbing into anything that smells— _off?_ Or that I’d let _you_ get in it?”

“Well, you did throw me into that lake that ti—”

“Which you absolutely deserved!—Third—well, do you _really_ want all the specifics on how the water’s treated here?”

“You mean the gross details?”

Derek just ignores and continues.

“It’s thorough, very thorough.”

“And you know this how?”

“Laura and Ed come here, and so have mom and dad.”

Stiles’s eyebrows rise. “It’s so nice that people their age are still _gettin’ it own_ in a hot tub.”

Derek glowers but immediately composes himself.

“Nobody’s ‘ _gettin’ it own_ ’ in these tubs, Stiles.”

“You mean _we’re_ not about to bump uglies?”

“ _No,_ Stiles.—Hence no, to quote an idiot, ‘festering soup of DNA.’”

When Stiles pouts Derek takes a deep breath. “My point is, my family wouldn’t come here if it wasn’t sanitary by werewolf standards.”

“In other words it’s got the Hale Pack certificate of ap _wolf_ al?”

 _I am at peace with my husband’s peculiar mind, I am at peace with my husband’s peculiar mind_ , Derek’s silent mantra plays on repeat. He nods, “Yes.”

Then he lovingly divests Stiles of his robe, tenderly kisses his precious upturned nose, and shoves him into the tub.


	2. Hole

Staring at the giant hole in the wall—a hole wide enough to walk through, so yeah, _giant_ —Stiles asks Derek once again what was he thinking, buying the place.

“It’ll be nice after I fix it up!” Derek insists. The gleam in his eyes as he glances around the loft, a soft smile on his lips, is endearing—that Stiles cannot deny.

Something more seems about to burst from Derek but he cuts himself off. Stiles’s reaction is just to rub a hand supportively up and down Derek’s back.

“It _will_ be nice, you’ll see,” Derek pledges.

“Even that?” Stiles points at the gaping hole.

“I’m contracting masons and carpenters to repair that.”

“Somebody was living here before, with that hole?” Stiles has seen questionable living spaces but never one with a missing wall.

“Yeah,” Derek replies. “The agent wouldn’t name names, just said he was a writer for TV at one time.”

“ _TV?”_ Stiles’s face lights up. “—Did the agent say what show? _Who_ was it?” Stiles _needs_ to know.

“Stiles, remember the part where I said she didn’t name names?”

“ _Derek_ ,” Stiles snaps back, “aren’t realtors required to by law to let prospective buyers know the history of the places they’re buying? Like, if there was a murder in it?”

“Murder, yes. Career failure, no.”

Derek realizes too late he’s said too much. It’s obvious Stiles has infected him with his chronic brain-to-mouth filter malfunction.

“You _do_ know more!— _Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me!”_ Stiles jabs both pointer fingers into Derek’s chest with each repetition. “ _Please!_ I’ll blow you, standing right here, I’ll give you _such_ a blow job if you tell me.”

Derek grabs both hands to stop the jabbing. “Stiles!—What if I tell you something else.” Derek hoped to pop this particular question after the loft’s repairs were complete, when it would look comfortable and welcoming. Now he just hopes it’ll serve as a diversionary tactic. “What if I told you I’d like you to move in here with me, once I get this loft the way I want it?”

Stiles answers instantly. “Yes! Yes, Derek. Yes! I’ll move in with you. Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Derek can sense Stiles is sincere, but hasn’t been diverted in the least. Not even jubilant emotion displaces curiosity of the Stilinski kind.

“But you realize now it’s even more important—it’s _crucial now_ —that you tell me about this TV guy. Otherwise I’ll always be wondering, living here, every day, even in your arms at night, I’ll be wondering _who_ was this guy, what happened to him that he chose to inhabit ruins like this.”

Stiles’s finishing touch is the doe-eyes and eyelash flutter.

Derek’s defeated. Almost. “I told you I don’t _know_ his name.”

“That’s perfect, then you’re not actually gossiping. You can still claim your nobility of spirit and your respect for some total stranger’s privacy—which by the way nobody can even recognize in Hollywood. You say ‘nobility,’ ‘respect’ and ‘privacy’ and people there are like, ‘Wha? These words you speak, weird person, we have no such concept—’”

“Stiles—”

“ _Pweeeeeease_.” Stiles purses his lips but then drops the baby-talk immediately and announces, “You know I’m not gonna stop pestering you till you tell me.”

“Yeah,” Derek sighs, “I know.” He takes a deep breath, waits a few seconds. “Apparently, the former occupant…” Another sigh. “… created a TV series that got to be really popular, millions of viewers, and then… something happened. Ratings plunged. Show got cancelled. He fled Tinsel Town for Beacon Hills.—”

“Oh, the _shame! Banished to Beacon Hills!_ —But kudos to you, Derek. I can’t believe you actually just said ‘Tinsel Town.’”

Derek forges on. “—And considering I got this place in a foreclosure auction, I guess his fortunes didn’t stop declining here.—That is all I know, Stiles, I swear to you.”

“You have done well, young padawan. Gave me enough info I can hunt down this loser’s name, and how he fucked up.”

“I don’t want to know!”

“Aww, Woofy-Woof, of course I’ll preserve your innocence.”

“’Innocence’? Does that mean I’m not getting a blow job now?”

“ _Of course_ you’re getting a blow job now! The first of many to be witnessed by these walls—not counting the missing one.” Stiles tucks his fingers down the front of Derek’s jeans. “My mouth’s already watering.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write Sterek fanfic as escape fantasy. But this one's a kind of revenge fantasy.


	3. Hangover

The last thing Stiles remembers is Scott’s stupid grinning face hovering close—too close—over his.

Before that there’s Erica’s face, also grinning—devilishly as always—as she handed him a red cup. Stiles knew the drink was too much booze but he was already drunk so he drank it.

He remembers kissing people—who kissed him back—though he has no memory of whom.

He’s in someone’s bed, his head aches, his mouth is dry and what he tastes suggests he shared midnight snacks with a raccoon.

To move his eyes hurts but he has to. Shifting them around he realizes he’s in Derek Hale’s room.

So, good odds he’s in Derek’s bed.

Now would be the perfect time to cease existing. That would solve two urgent problems: one, end the nasty pain in his cranium.

Two, mean he wouldn’t have to face Derek Hale, in Derek’s room, in Derek’s bed, with no recall of how he got in either.

But of course who immediately enters opening then closing the door quietly, so quietly.

Stiles pulls the sheet over his face, feels the bedside dip.

“You should drink this.”

Derek’s voice is dreamily soft, the way Stiles imagines it sounds in the afterglow of a sexy romp—not that he ever imagines sexily romping with Derek—at least not more than a few nights a week before falling asleep.

Stiles lowers the sheet enough to peek out. Derek’s holding a glass of water in one hand.

“And take a few of these.”

He’s got an aspirin bottle in the other.

“Can’t you just suffocate me instead? As a favor?”

“Why would I go through the trouble of rescuing you from yourself just to suffocate you the morning after?”

“Rescue… myself?”

Stiles doesn’t really want to know, except Stiles _always_ wants to know.

“Please take these and drink this first.”

When Stiles sits up the sheet slips, exposing his bare chest. He covers himself quickly but when Derek proffers two aspirins and Stiles reaches for them the sheet drops again. He anchors it between his head and shoulder, pops the aspirin in his mouth, then clutches the sheet against his throat while he drains the glass and swallows the aspirin.

It’s all very complicated maneuvering for somebody in the wake of brain-cell mass murder.

“I figured anyone who wears as many layers as you do is probably not in his right mind when he offers to striptease for the crowd. I put you to bed.”

Stiles thinks once again about the benefits of ceasing to exist. Then he looks under the sheet. All he sees are his Spiderman boxer briefs.

“Then who _did_ …” He swallows again, heavily, “…undress me.”

“Your friend Scott tried helping, but… mostly me. Scott wasn’t very sober. Either.”

“Scott still here too?”

“Somewhere on the floor out there.”

“You’re not taking care of him, too?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Struggling between thoughts of apologizing to Derek and thanking him Stiles suddenly remembers all the random kissing he committed the night before.

“Sorry, did I… uh, kiss you?”

“You tried. I didn’t let you.”

“I’m _so_ sorry.”

“Maybe try again when you’re sober.” Maybe Derek’s joking. Stiles jokes all the time and most times nobody knows if he’s telling the truth or just playing.

Meanwhile Derek’s cheeks flame up a pretty pink color.

He’s been standing since Stiles drank the water. Now Stiles can see Derek’s shirt: Abraham Lincoln’s head is attached to the flexing upper torso of a bodybuilder. Over Lincoln is the word HISTORY and under the torso, BUFF.

After Scott befriended Isaac, the friend of Boyd, the boyfriend to Erica, the roommate and bestie of one Derek Hale, buff history major, Stiles’s peace of mind became history too.

“My t-shirt around here anywhere?”

“It’s still in the dryer. I washed it. With your other shirt. And your pants. You, um, got something on them.”

 _There’s_ something Stiles does not want to know.

“I’m really sorry, Derek.”

Derek hands him a neatly folded tee.

“Take this. I’ll get you sweatpants too but I don’t recommend going out there yet. Erica promised she’d have the kitchen cleaned up soon.—It was _her_ party.”

Feeling less exposed in Derek’s shirt Stiles resumes his apologies.

“M’sorry I kept you out of your own bed. Did you get any sleep? I’ll get out so you can get some sleep.”

“No. Stay. I slept.” Derek gets on the bed, sitting up beside Stiles. “I tried sleeping in my chair.” He points toward his desk. “But I couldn’t. So, um, yeah, I got in bed.—But I wore this!” He gestures at his shirt and baggy sweatpants. “I kept on my socks too.” He lifts up a leg to show the proof.

Stiles has to clamp his lips tight not to smile.

“I _knew_ you were an honorable person, Derek.”

“Can I take them off now?”

The question warrants Stiles’s shocked reaction, though only “ _What?”_ squeaks out _._

“My socks.” Derek reaches to peel them off, presses them together and folds them in half. “I hate wearing socks in bed.”

 _You’re cute_ , Stiles can barely prevent himself from saying.

“You’re cute,” he says anyway.

Derek droops his head and looks away. Stiles suspects he’s blushing again.

Of all the ways Stiles has fantasized ending up next to Derek in bed this has never been one, but here he is. And here they are.

“I need to thank you, looking out for me like this.”

“Maybe you should rethink drinking so much.”

“I do. Every hangover.”

Derek doesn’t look impressed.

“OK! It hasn’t happened much. Maybe three times, counting this time. But last time, I woke up on a lawn. This is my nicest waking up hung over.”

Derek’s expression shifts, a smile striving to surface.

“You’re welcome.”

Maybe it’s the remnant alcohol in his blood but Stiles has never felt more confident.

“If my mouth didn’t taste like a dumpster, you’d get a thank-you kiss.”

“Well,” Derek doesn’t miss a beat. “I do have extra tooth brushes.”


	4. Happy PBA Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this fic is revealed about a third of the way through. I thought it might be a tiny bit of a spoiler in an already tiny fic so I put it in the end note.

Stiles’s wide-eyed, maniacal grin, soon as he barges into the apartment, gets Derek’s heart racing.

“Hey, Fuzzbutt!” he leers. “Do you know what today is?”

Now Derek panics. He _cannot_ have forgotten an important date. Stiles’s birthday’s circled on his secret calendar, an alert programmed in his phone to remind him on a weekly basis starting a month ahead of time; they’ve been dating exactly nine months and seventeen days so there’s no significant anniversary coming up for at least another two and half months.

_Or is there?_

Derek’s glad Stiles can’t hear heartbeats or smell fear but Stiles can tell Derek looks a little—rattled maybe.

So he throws his arms round his boyfriend’s neck and hugs him tight. For a few seconds at least. He’s too excited for more.

“ _Do_ ya?” Stiles continues.

He starts backing Derek out of the room, Derek still trying to think of what the occasion could possibly be though once they reach the bedroom he has an idea of how it’s going to be celebrated.

When he’s against the bed and gets kissed again Derek finally confesses, “Stiles, I don’t know!”

Stiles just keeps smirking, pulls off Derek’s shirt over his head and taps against his chest. There’s no force but Derek lets it push him over and across the bed.

Standing between Derek’s spread knees Stiles proclaims, “Apparently today is power bottom appreciation day—and apparently only _I’m_ aware.”

“Oh,” Derek says, incredibly relieved. Stiles is always making up “holidays,” most of them involving sex. Derek’s OK with that.

But he waves a finger between himself and Stiles, “Which one of us is…?”

“Who do ya think!” Stiles answers, deftly unfastening Derek’s pants and tugging them down his legs, which Derek sticks out to facilitate. His socks come off too.

With grin back in place Stiles commences raking his long fingers up and down the fly of Derek’s boxers, until Derek Jr. is not only on board for the festivities but also stiff as one.

Applying a combination of speed and finesse he’s not usually known for Stiles strips off Derek’s undies. He stops long enough to adore what he’s revealed.

“Oh, Little Derek, at least _you_ know what day it is, don’t you.”

Such readiness merits a kiss or two.

Stiles backs away, with an admiring sigh. “Little Derek, so big for your age!”

He doesn’t get clumsy till he tries removing his own clothes and retrieving the lube at the same time.

Derek still isn’t sure which of them is performing in the day’s featured role until he sees Stiles stick the fingers he’s just slicked up into his own butthole.

“I can help with that,” he volunteers.

“Not today you can!” Stiles barks.

With both his hands held up in surrender and a countenance to match Derek yields without a word, then orients himself the usual way on the bed, ready for the ride.

Stiles’s attitude switches from bossy to enthusiastic when he gets on, first exchanging some hearty kisses and declaring, “Gonna give you something to really appreciate,” before straddling Derek and lowering himself onto hard cock.

He grins gleefully at Derek’s expression, a little rapturous because _it feels so good_.

Stiles is an expert in this saddle. He rises and falls, bounces and grinds. He repeats his usual dumb joke about being a special kind of pole dancer.

He coos and curses; giggles too whenever Derek moans aloud or stutters his name.

The only position change he permits is when Derek sits up and front to front they form a probable kama sutra pose. It’s good for kissing intensely but when Stiles decides it’s enough another mere push flattens Derek onto the mattress again.

After some hard pounding down Stiles braces himself in a squat so Derek can thrust upward and that’s how he comes, the fingers of both hands interlocked with Stiles’s in a tense grip through his orgasm, unclenching only so Stiles can jerk himself to finish, Derek’s still hard dick in his ass.

Stiles settles for a minute. They’re both silent, though Stiles is waiting to speak and Derek seems to know that.

First he dismounts, excuses himself and when he returns it’s with a warm washcloth to wipe down Derek’s sperm spattered abs and anywhere else in need of a wipe.

It’s been a warm afternoon so they stay atop the bedcovers to snuggle facing one another and sharing much softer kisses now.

As Stiles tranquilly scratches through his thick hair, Derek asks, from the depths of mellowness, “So… d‘you feel ‘preciated?”

“I certainly do.” Stiles assures him. “Do you feel you showed appreciable appreciation?”

“Mm-hmm,” is all Derek can manage to say. He actually has no idea if he did or not, though he’s satisfied and Stiles seems satisfied too.

“That’s good!” Stiles cheers. “Because do you know what day tomorrow is?”

Derek does _not_ know.

“It’s Bang a Big Guy in the Butt Day!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFLN prompt: (312): Apparently today is power bottom appreciation day.


End file.
